but now I leaned toward him, asking him for one last thing. Something I knew he did better than anyone. “Don’t think or judge,” I said. “Just listen.” “Annabel? We’re just about to start the movie….” My mother’s voice was soft; she thought I’d been sleeping. “You about ready?” “Almost,” I said. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll be downstairs.” The day before, I hadn’t just told Owen about what happened to me at the party. I told him everything. The stuff with Sophie at school, Whitney’s recovery,

even considered this. “No. Not even if it felt good at the time,” he said. “Trust me.” The weirdest thing of all was that I did. Trust him, that is. I looked down at the pack of tissues he’d given me, picking them up and taking out another one. Just as I did, I heard a buzzing from my bag. My phone. I pulled it out, glancing at the caller ID. It was my mother, and I debated for a second whether I should pick up. I mean, it was weird enough to be sitting there with Owen without getting my mom

listening to Anger Management, here on WRUS, your community radio station. Here’s Nuptial.” Which was another long techno piece, followed by something that sounded like old men reciting poems about whaling ships, their voices gruff and uneven, after which came a solid two minutes of very drippy-sounding harp music. It was such a mishmash, I couldn’t even begin to adjust to it. Instead, for a full hour, I sat there, listening to song after song, waiting for one I could actually either a)

He leaned a little closer to me. “Look, if you’re worried about my feelings, don’t be. You can say whatever you want. I won’t be offended.” “I did. I liked it.” “Tell the truth. Say something. Anything. Just spit it out.” “I—” I began, then stopped myself. Maybe it was the fact that he was so clearly on to me. Or my sudden awareness of how rarely I was honest. Either way, I broke. “I…I didn’t like it,” I said. He slapped his leg. “I knew it! You know, for someone who lies a lot, you’re not

switching my phone to my other ear. “That’s great.” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but the truth was I’d totally forgotten that a few days earlier my mother had told me that Lindy, my agent, was sending my pictures over to a local swimwear company called Mooshka Surfwear that was hiring for their new ad campaign. Suffice to say modeling was not my top concern these days. “However,” she continued, “Lindy says they’d like to see you in person.” “Oh,” I said as the line crept another inch or so